Singin' in the Snow
by beeeinyourbonnet
Summary: With the invention of talking pictures, Robert Gold is forced out of injury-induced retirement to make one more picture with his hated on-screen lady, Cora Hart.
1. Chapter 1

"David told me they were planning something special," Neal said, leaning over so that he was whispering in Gold's ear. "You should be more excited, Dad."

Gold, sitting straight-backed in the velvet theater chair between his son and his manager, grunted. "I'm very excited, can't you tell?"

David leaned over to whisper in his other ear. "You will not believe what they're showing tonight, Gold. You've never seen anything like it."

"Get your face off of my face."

"Don't be such a sourpuss. Get excited!" David leaned away anyway, though, and settled onto the other arm of his chair, which he shared with his fiancée, Mary Margaret.

Gold pulled on the corners of his mouth, forming a waxy smile. "There. Are you both happy?"

"Very." Neal patted him on the leg. "Now shut up, it's about to start."

From their place of honor in the center balcony, Gold had a perfect view of the blank screen in front of him, as well as every hat, fascinator, and feathered headband in the audience. He did not envy any of the people seated behind the well-dressed women, although the corner of his own view was partially obstructed by a ceramic orchid arrangement on the balcony ledge.

"Is it going to start any time soon?" he asked, drumming his fingers on the golden head of his cane.

"They might need to work out a few kinks," David said. "But trust me, it's worth the wait."

Gold did not trust this fact at all, but he kept his mouth shut. It was better not to get David too worked up, because then he talked more, and he was even less thrilled about listening to him talk than he was about waiting here in this theater.

"Just pretend that it's a premier of one of your pictures," Neal whispered. "Until it starts, and you realize it isn't."

"I don't like going to those, either."

"Well, you're just a cranky old bastard, then." Neal shifted back to his own seat, and Gold fought off a tiny grin. If David saw that he was amused for any reason, he would assume it was his own fault.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Everyone swiveled to face the stage, and Mr. Midas at the microphone. He was wearing his customary golden bowtie and rings, arms spread as though he were inviting the audience up on stage with him.

"As you've likely heard, we have a special treat for you this evening, and as much as I want to say more, I won't give anything away, so without further delay, let us begin!"

He took the microphone with him, leaving it on the side of the stage so that it wouldn't block the screen, and then disappeared. As the lights dimmed, David and Neal were both vibrating with excitement, and Gold could feel it in each of his legs. Next time, he was going to insist on an end seat.

Midas appeared in their balcony shortly after, taking his seat behind Gold as the screen crackled to life. After a few seconds of static, a bald man with big ears appeared, smiling at them all.

"What the hell is this?" Gold whispered, leaning closer to Neal so that David wouldn't hit him.

"Just watch."

"Good evening, everyone," the man on screen said, and the audience all gasped. "This is a demonstration of a talking picture." He paused, giving the audience enough time to stare. "Yes, you heard correctly. I have just spoken to you. I am on the screen, and I am speaking to you."

Someone screamed. Everyone else was sitting in stunned silence. Next to slack-jawed Gold, Neal and David were grinning at the screen like they were on a thrill ride.

"That's a good trick!" a man yelled.

"Yeah, come out from behind that screen, Mr. Midas!"

Midas stood up as the man on screen continued. "I'm right here, everyone."

There were more gasps, and a few more screams. Gold still couldn't remove his eyes from the screen.

"Watch my lips move, and hear perfectly synchronized words come out. I am making a talking picture. My voice has been recorded on a record, and it is playing in time with my picture."

The audience fell into silence as the man continued to speak, lips moving in slow, deliberate motions that were in perfect synch with each sound. When the screen went black and the lights went on, no one moved for a second.

"What did I just watch?" Gold murmured, still staring at the blank screen.

"A talking picture." Neal hadn't stopped grinning since the film came on. "It's the next big thing."

Gold shook his head. "That'll never catch on. It's too new, too expensive."

"But Dad, you could act in talkies!"

Gold's upper lip curled. "In what?"

"Talkies! Talking pictures. But since you don't have to rely on movement as much, it wouldn't be a problem for your ankle, so you could go back to acting."

"I'm happy working with you on the music." He glared up at the screen. "Besides, it'll never catch on."

* * *

The press was waiting outside the theater, and Neal stopped to straighten Gold's tie while Mary Margaret straightened David's.

"It's fine." Gold batted his hand away. "Yours is the crooked one."

"Yeah, but no one's taking pictures of me."

"They should." Gold rested on his cane, waiting for the moment he would have to step out the theater doors. "You're the handsome one, too."

"Well, you're the famous one, so suck it up."

As soon as they stepped out, cameras started flashing. Gold forced a smile, raising his hand in a wave to the cameras. There were several questions shouted, but the reporter with the microphone set up on the red carpet was the only one to whom he intended to speak. He kept his smile and his wave, Neal following a step behind him and doing the same—though no one cared much about him, to Gold's annoyance—and took his place at the stand. The crowd screamed.

"Ladies and gentleman, Robert Gold!"

With his right hand, he waved, and with his left, he brought Neal up to the mic with him. "And my son, Neal Cassady."

His fans screamed like they always did, but he hated that he knew it was because he had been the one to announce it. If the reporter woman had, it would have been greeted with silence until they realized what he was waiting for. Still, Neal was unbothered, and he smiled and waved like only a careless young man could.

The reporter stepped back to the mic, inching both men out of the way with her silk-covered bulk. "So, Robert, can you tell us anything about what you saw in there?"

"Unfortunately, I cannot." There was a collective boo from the crowd, and Gold gave them an indulgent half-smile.

"Oh, but we're just dying to know!" the reporter said, looking out at the crowd with a hand on her cheek.

"What I can say is that my son is very excited about it, as is David Nolan." He pointed to David, standing over by the limo, and David waved.

"Ooh, it sounds exciting!" The crowd cheered again until the reporter quieted them down. "So, Robert, I've heard some rumors that I think everyone is interested in you shedding some light on."

"Well, I'll try my best."

"I've heard that you might be coming out of retirement and making another picture with Cora Hart!"

Gold almost blanched, but managed to keep his smile on for the cameras. He forced out a chuckle. "Well, I don't see that happening any time soon." He gestured to his leg, and the cane on which he was leaning. "Unfortunately, I'm not as young as I was, and Cora is still in her prime. I wouldn't want to hold her back."

The crowd made a sympathetic noise, and he tried to react appropriately, tilting his head and casting his eyes down.

"Well, we can always hope!" The reporter clasped her hands together. "So, tell us, Robert. What's it like working with Cora?"

He bit his teeth together, making sure his lips didn't turn down. "It's a bit like handling a box full of live snakes." The crowd looked at him in confusion, and he forced his smile to grow. "Thrilling, and exciting."

There were more screams and claps and cheers, and even the reporter squealed a little. "Just as we all knew! Now, for the question we've all been wondering—how's your relationship holding up now that you're not acting together?"

A disbelieving grimace almost fought its way onto Gold's face, but he fought it back. "Oh, well, Cora is a lovely woman, but we're just friends."

There was another boo from the crowd, and David signaled to Neal from the limo. Neal grabbed Gold's shoulders and pushed him aside, to more booing and protests.

"Sorry, folks, Robert's got a party to go to. He'll see you next time!"

Gold waved as Neal guided him into his car—limos were difficult to get in and out of—but the second that his face wasn't in front of any cameras, he let his scowl come out.

"As if I would do another film with Cora." He folded his arms, sulking like a child in the passenger seat while his son navigated the crowded streets.

"You never know." Neal glanced over. "If Monumental decides to make a talkie, it could be you and Cora."

"This 'talkie' thing is just a fad." Gold sank deeper into the chair. "It's fun in small doses, but it'll be a pain to make a whole picture with it."

"Warner Brothers is making a full-length talkie. Something about jazz, I think."

Gold's scoff was covered up by the car making a puttering sound, like someone was hitting the hood with a golf club. Both men turned to look at the wheel.

"Aw, man." Neal whacked the dashboard. "This thing hasn't given me any trouble in at least six hours."

"Well, you'd best hope it stops giving you trouble soon."

"It will." He hit the dash again, flattening the gas pedal as the car slowed, and then it sputtered to a stop.

"Wonderful." Gold picked his cane up, opening the door. "Guess we have to go fix it now."

"Don't worry, it'll be up and running in a jiff."

Gold stepped out, leaning against it in case Neal needed help with anything. Cars sped by, maneuvering around them, and people walked up and down the sidewalks. Gold wasn't paying much attention, more focused on his son and the broken car, so he didn't notice the group of young women until one of them screeched his name at the top of her lungs, and by then, it was too late.

"Dad, run!" Neal shouted over the sound of a dozen girls rushing them.

Gold tried to listen, but he only had one good leg, and there were at least twenty-four legs in top condition lurching after him, grabbing for his clothes and his cane and his hair. Someone took a fistful of his suit jacket while he raced for Neal, and his pocket square disappeared in the tussle, but then Neal's arm was around him and he was limping away as fast as he could, using his cane as a shield.

"Hey!" Neal yelled to a car with an empty passenger seat. "Hey, stop for a sec!"

The woman in the car looked over, slowing down, and Neal left Gold to limp over on his own while he yanked the door open. The car hadn't even stopped when Gold was being thrown in, and then the door was shut.

"Drive!" Neal glanced over his shoulder, but before Gold could see how close they were being followed, she was driving away from Neal, sending him flying back into the seat.

"Thank you," he said, panting. His blazer was ruined—ripped at each seam. "I'm on the run, as it were."

He looked over at the woman, then, and she looked over at him—all blue eyes and red lips—and then she screamed like he'd pulled a gun on her.

"What? What's wrong?" He gripped his cane tight and looked all around, prepared to fend off anything he needed to.

"You—you! I recognize you, you're a criminal, _get out of my car_—" She cut herself off with another scream, looking around like a spooked horse.

"Well, I've played criminals before, but I'm not—"

She was screaming too much for him to make any difference, and when she slammed on the breaks and knocked the wind out of him, he gave up. At least she wasn't stealing his clothes.

"Officer!" she screamed, and he realized why she'd stopped the car. "Officer!"

The policeman at the light pole meandered over, face scrunched in a tiny frown, and Gold wanted to sink into the upholstery. Where was Neal?

"Officer, this man just jumped into my car and told me to drive—"

"Why, it's Robert Gold!" The policeman broke into a grin, thrusting his hand into Gold's face. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir!"

Gold shook his hand. "The pleasure is all mine, Officer."

"Robert Gold?" the woman echoed.

With a small, smug grin, Gold turned his head toward her. "Aye. Robert Gold."

"You're one lucky lady, ma'am." The policeman tipped his hat, stepping back. "Was there a problem?"

"No, officer," the woman said, voice like a shadow. "Just a tiny mistake."

"Well, all right. You two have a great night, okay?"

"Yes, sir." Gold saluted, and the man saluted back before heading off to his light pole. When Gold turned to face forward, the woman was staring ahead, vacant-eyed and chewing her lip. She started to drive, and Gold sat with a grin like he was hiding all the secrets in the world.

After a half-minute of silence, she glanced at him. "I'm so sorry," she said, her voice much more lovely now that it wasn't shrieking like a banshee. She was pretty not-screaming, too, in her navy cloche and wool coat.

"It's quite all right. Honest mistake." At least she had calmed.

"I did recognize your face," she offered, biting her lip.

"That is very true."

"I'm so sorry, again. Can I make it up to you by dropping you off somewhere?"

"Ah, I wouldn't mind changing out of this suit." He plucked at a torn sleeve, and the woman made a sympathetic noise. "Is Sunset and Camden too out of your way?"

"Oh, not at all! I'm going right by there. What happened to your suit?"

"It was met by a group of fans." Still a showman at heart despite his retirement, he shuddered for affect, relishing the pretty woman's offended sigh.

"Your fans did that to you?" She pressed a hand to her chest. "That's terrible!"

"Oh, yes. Terrible." He stretched out, letting his arm fall behind her. "So, tell me—do I get to know the name of my fair heroine?"

"Oh, goodness, I'm so sorry. Where are my manners?" She laughed, shaking her head at herself. "Belle French."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss French. Robert Gold."

Even in the darkness, he could see her cheeks flush. "I really am sorry. I knew I recognized your face from somewhere, and I don't go to the pictures very often, so I just assumed."

"Don't go to the theater very often?" He settled back into the chair. "Aren't you a young woman in her prime? Aren't you the target audience?"

She glanced at him, lips pursed like he'd made a distasteful joke. "I suppose I am, yes, but I prefer real theater to pantomime, and I can't really afford tickets to that. Normally, I just stick to my books."

Gold sat up straighter, brows drawn. "Pantomime? Is that what you just called it?"

"Oh, come now, you know. Pictures are all a bunch of dumb show. It's all gasping and hand gestures and unnatural kisses." Belle, it seemed, liked to talk with her hands, and with one hand on the wheel, she acted out all of her so-called pantomimes, ending in puckered lips facing his way.

His sour look had her turning back to face the road.

"Dumb show. I see."

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry, I don't mean to offend you—I mean, I know it's very physically exerting." She flapped a hand toward his leg. "I do admire your ability to do your own stunts. But it's certainly not acting."

"So I'm just a dumb stunt man, is that what you're saying?"

"No!" She squeezed her wheel, knuckles turning pink, and maybe he should cut her a break, but he was in a torn suit and he didn't much feel like letting this woman lecture him on the merits of his job. "I just mean that movies are a lot of pantomiming. You know, dramatic gestures so the audience knows what's going on without being able to hear! And that's just not my cup of tea. I prefer real theater."

"Real theater, I see. Tell me, what is it that you do that makes you such a connoisseur?"

"Oh, I wouldn't call myself a connoisseur—just appreciative."

"Appreciative, critical, and evasive. What do you do?"

She glanced at him, and her cheeks couldn't have been more red if he'd leaned over and whispered something filthy in her ear—which he was considering doing, just to be obtuse. "I'm a writer."

"And are you a real writer, or just a writer with lots of gasping and unnatural kisses?"

"I'm a struggling writer who's been rejected so many times that I'm thinking of taking on a man's name so that no one knows I'm a woman."

"Perhaps it's because your book is just a lot of dumb show."

"You don't know anything about my work."

"And you seem to know everything about mine. More than anyone, else, it seems."

"Yours is in a public forum—everyone can see and judge your work all the time."

She slammed on the breaks as he was about to retort, sending him reeling forward again. He hadn't been paying much attention, but they were at the corner of his road—and he had the feeling that she wouldn't be taking him any closer to his house than here.

"Here we are, Sunset and Camden." She pointed as if he wouldn't understand otherwise, jaw set in a hard line.

"Thank you, dear, you've been so kind." He opened the door and clambered out as gracefully as he could with a bum leg and a ripped suit. "I do hope that someday, you'll get rejected for your work instead of your gender, as you seem to want." He tipped an imaginary hat to her, savagely pleased by her offended snuffling squeak.

"Goodnight, Mr. Gold," she said, clamping both hands down on the wheel. "I hope you enjoy being a mime."

It was a good thing that she sped away after that, because Gold could not find a retort within him. Instead, he just stared after her trying to look as though she had robbed him of his final zinger, until she drove round the corner and he could start to limp home.

* * *

The party at Midas' house was in full swing by the time Gold arrived an hour later in his taxi, dressed in a clean and rip-free suit with a stormy blue pocket square. He found Neal at the bar, chatting with Mary Margaret and David.

"Jesus, Dad," he said, making room for him. "What took you so long?"

"Get me a scotch," he said, gesturing to the bar. "Lagavulin. Neat."

"Dad, you can't have a scotch, you know they don't have alcohol—"

"Of course they do, this is Hollywood." He turned to the bartender, snapping to get his attention. "Lagavulin, neat."

He downed the first one, and was feeling better by the time a second was pressed into his waiting hand. Neal rubbed his back between his shoulder blades, and the weight of his hand was comforting.

"Everyone's talking about the interview," David said. Gold would have glared at him, but he was much too busy contemplating the alcohol in his hand.

"That's nice." He took a sip. "Is someone going to take my picture here? I'd like to leave as soon as possible."

"You can't leave." David took a sip of his soda. "Cora's here."

"Oh, then I'm definitely leaving." He started to walk away, but Neal caught him on the coat tails.

"Come on, Dad, let's just take a walk, okay?"

After a few seconds, Gold nodded, allowing his son to guide him away from his manager. Several people said hello, but no one stopped them. Gold finished his scotch before they'd even made one round, and wished that it would refill itself automatically, but had to content himself with squeezing the empty glass every time the words _dumb show_ and _pantomime_ flashed through his head.

"All right, what's wrong with you?" Neal asked, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

"Nothing."

"Don't give me that. I've known you my whole life. Something happened. Was it David?"

"Yes." He wasn't ready to tell his son that he'd been insulted. He liked to keep up the mystery that he was an invincible acting hero.

"No, it wasn't. You don't sound mad enough about his name. What was it? Come on. You know you can tell me anything."

Gold pursed his lips, racing through excuses in his mind that would buy him enough time to make up a better one. He was interrupted by a throaty purr of his name.

"Robbie!"

He winced, glancing at Neal like a frightened rabbit. "Robbie, indeed," he muttered, but he had to turn around. Cora Hart, his leading lady, was sauntering over to him in a beaded purple dress, her amethyst-embellished headband catching the light and making her look like a glittering purple lizard.

"Cora, dear." He offered his hand and she took it, leaning in to kiss the air by his cheeks with her blood red lips.

"Robbie, darling, I've been looking all over for you."

"Unfortunately, you found me."

"Come, walk with me." She latched onto his arm like a boa constrictor, tugging at him and not giving him much room to limp after her. He threw a helpless look at Neal, but even his son wasn't going to come between the two of them.

"Yes, dear."

He allowed her to lead him in silence for a minute or so, waving at people when she did. She kept her vice grip on his arm, and he wouldn't have been surprised if she'd unhinged her jaws and swallowed him whole.

"So what is it that you want, Cora?"

"To spend time with you, of course. Do you have a light?" She held out her cigarette, and Gold sighed, reaching into his jacket pocket.

"I'd really rather we didn't spend time together."

"But if we don't spend time together, people will think our engagement is going downhill." She stuck the cigarette in her mouth, leaning into his lighter.

Gold let out a bark of laughter. "Our engagement? Have you been reading the fan magazines?"

"Of course. How else am I supposed to keep up-to-date on my own life?" She puffed on the cigarette, blowing smoke into his face. He remained stoic.

"Perhaps by living it. I hope you know we're not getting married."

"Of course we are, Robbie, don't be ridiculous."

He could only manage a surprised puff of un-amused laughter, mouth hanging open even when no sound continued to come out. "Right, well, tell me how our wedding is."

"Oh, come, dear, don't be so difficult. Let's go talk to Mr. Midas."

"Actually, I have somewhere else to be." He managed to disentangle himself, leaning on his cane. "I'm sure you have a crowd of admirers you can attend to."

Before she could draw him back onto her arm, he slipped into a crowd of men behind him, and bumped straight into Neal.

"Don't tell me," he said, righting himself. "You've been lurking here the whole time and couldn't be bothered to save your poor, defenseless father from the viper?"

"Sorry, Pop." He slung an arm around his shoulder, starting to steer him. "Come on. Everyone wants the entertainment, but no one will start it without you."

"I need a refill first." He swilled his empty glass, and wriggled out from Neal's arm to get to the bar.

Soon, though, they and everyone else were standing in front of the darkened, makeshift stage. Gold was front and center, standing with Midas, David, and Neal. Cora was somewhere near the side, sitting on a table and being admired.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked, resting on his cane and sipping his scotch.

"I think it's a singer," Neal said.

"I found her at the Coconut Grove. She's a gem, an absolute treasure," Midas said, watching the stage with his arms crossed.

"You do like treasure," Gold murmured, but if Midas was so enamored, he supposed he could try not to hate it. He was, after all, a musician now, and meant to be appreciative of other musicians.

The lights dimmed, and the noise along with it, silencing completely when the curtain was drawn to reveal a woman sitting on a stool in front of a microphone. Her hair was in a knot of curls at the side of her head, with a red and black feathered headband the size of a dinner plate, making her look both exotic and expensive. When she stood up and walked to the mic, he could see her drop-waisted red dress, embellished with beads on top and fringe on the bottom.

"She's not a bad sight, at least," Neal whispered, and Gold would have agreed if she hadn't been a lounge singer.

A spotlight shone on her, illuminating her face, and Gold choked on his drink. There, standing before him, with darkened blue eyes and lips as red as her dress, was his rescuer.

"Belle?" he wheezed, but someone somewhere that should have been his son but wasn't had started to play the piano, and no one could hear his fit except Neal, who had his hand on his back and was rubbing in circles.

Even through his choking, he kept his gaze on Belle, and she cast fearful looks down at him. He tried to straighten up, not wanting to show weakness in front of this woman, but all he could manage was a staggering grip on his cane.

Then, she started singing, and he fell silent. Her voice made him think of roses, beautiful and rich and dangerous, or maybe that was just her dress. He'd heard her song before, but not like this—not slowed down by the piano and her silken voice.

_"All I do the whole night through is dream of you_."

No wonder she'd been so critical of him—all he did was move around on a set and press his face into Cora's. Meanwhile, she had real talent, and he felt things from her performance that no one had made him feel in a long time. Had he ever made anyone feel anything?

"_You're every thought, you're everything, you're every song I ever sing_."

"Dad," Neal whispered in his ear, and Gold jumped. "Are you okay?"

He glanced over, but his eyes slid right back to Belle. "Yes, fine."

"Who is that?"

"_When skies are grey, when skies are blue, morning, noon, and night time, too. All I do the whole day through is dream of you._"

"The entertainment." Gold swallowed something unpleasant rising in his throat. He wanted to leave, but he was rooted to the spot.

She finished her song, and her eyes met his for the first time. He couldn't bring his face to look mocking, but he stood with his feet apart and both hands resting on the head of his cane, head tilted to suggest that he might have been confused, or concerned for her well-being. He clamped his teeth together, hoping this made him look angry.

Belle swallowed, and jerked her head away from him. The piano started up again, and he didn't recognize the song she was singing this time, but it was another slow, gentle ballad—until she got through a verse and the music sped up as dancers in tiny pink dresses emerged from all sides to join her.

It ruined the whole show, but Gold watched anyway, not having to fight to keep his tiny smirk on now that Belle's soulful voice was being subjected to interpretive dance numbers and jazz hands. They did three more songs, and then the dancers dispersed into the crowd, flinging pink flower petals out of satchels at their waist. Belle herself was handed a basket of petals, and fled with it.

Gold took off after her as the crowd spread out, getting back to the party, with Neal hot on his heels.

"Dad? Where are you going?"

"I'll catch up with you in a bit," he said, waving him off. If the petals had been different colors, he could have followed Belle's trail, but she was flinging the same ones as all the other dancers, and they were scattered everywhere over the floor.

He found her in a corner, hiding behind a tiered dessert display and half-heartedly throwing flower petals out into the room.

"You didn't tell me you were a singer," he said, pitching his voice low. She jumped, knocking over a tiny pitcher of creamer.

"Please go away," she said, searching around for napkins. He handed her one.

"Oh, but I never got the chance to compliment your performance. I had no idea you were hiding all of that under your coat." He gestured to her red get-up, and she glared at him as she mopped up the spilled cream from between cooling mugs of coffee and cocoa.

"Leave me alone."

Finished cleaning, she darted away from the table, but he blocked her path with his cane, and then sidled over in front of her.

"What a beautiful dumb show," he said, twirling his free hand in the air, as if he were performing in a _comedia dell'arte_. "I particularly enjoyed when you sang about the sun shining, and everyone waved their arms like sun rays."

"That wasn't my choice," she said, glaring at him like she was trying to melt him.

"I thought you were a writer? Was that all just another pantomime?"

"I am a writer, but I need to make a living, too." She looked about ready to cry, and he felt a small tug on his chest, but he found he couldn't stop.

"So you sold out?"

"No. I would never sell out for my passion." She tried to push past him again, but seemed unwilling to do anything that might hurt his leg, so stopped herself after a second. "This is just a job."

"Oh, I see, you've just deigned to sing to us mimes."

"Excuse me."

Gold turned around as Belle looked up in horror, and promptly wished that the both of them could disappear. Cora stood behind them, cigarette poised by her ear, looking like she was ready to rip a throat out with her teeth.

"Yes, dear?" he asked, shifting a bit to block Belle from view as much as possible.

"Who is this, Robbie?" She looked Belle up and down as if she was just an ugly spot on the wall.

"This is the entertainment, and she is far more entertaining than we so-called actors, with our pantomiming."

"I beg your pardon?" Cora's hip jutted to one side, and she sauntered closer, resting a hand on Gold's shoulder. "Who are you? Some nobody?"

"Yes, now if you'll excuse me—"

"Oh, she's not a nobody," Gold said, throwing a hand out to stop her. "She's a necessary fixture in the entertainment industry, a singer and a writer who boasts a depth of emotion that we dumb showmen could never achieve with our stunts."

Belle straightened up, looking like a tiny kitten about to pounce. "Mr. Gold, get out of my way."

"Yes, of course, I will, just after—"

He saw her reach for the lukewarm mug and reacted before he really registered what she was about to do. He flung himself to the side just as she flung the contents at his face.

A screech from behind him told him that the hot chocolate had not landed harmlessly on the floor over his shoulder. Belle's face went white, and she shrank away.

"I am so, so sorry," she whispered, just before Cora let out another ear-splitting shriek.

"_I'll kill her_!" Cora yelled, and Gold had just enough time to throw himself in front of her before she attacked Belle, fingernails first.

"Cora, calm down, she didn't mean to hit you," Gold said, trying to hold her off. He was stronger than her on a normal day, but her rage coupled with his leg made holding her back a Herculean endeavor. He sagged in relief when Neal's stronger hands appeared to help.

"Dad, what happened?" he asked, frowning as he struggled against Cora's blind rage.

"She threw a drink in my face and missed."

Neal looked at Cora. "You managed to throw a drink in your own face?"

"No, not Cora, Belle."

"Who?"

Gold frowned, turning to show him just who Belle was, but she was gone, leaving no trace that she had ever been there at all other than a few flower petals and a damp tablecloth.


	2. Chapter 2

They were in the middle of a love scene between Cora and her new film-beau, Henry, when Midas stormed into the studio, red-faced and waving his arms.

"Stop production! Stop all production!"

Gold's fingers stilled on the piano, and Neal's violin bow stopped. Cora and Henry looked up, her French Revolution era wig making her look like an angry porcelain doll.

"What's wrong?" Gold asked.

"It's caught on."

Gold and Neal exchanged looks, eyebrows drawn. "What's caught on, exactly?"

"Talkies! _The Jazz Singer_ was a big hit in the first weekend."

David appeared then, disentangled from the back room, entire face drawn. "What's going on?"

"It's _The Jazz Singer_! It's caught on." Midas raised a newspaper, and they all stared at it. Neal was the first one to reach forward and take it, smoothing it out so that he could read the first column.

"'_The Jazz Singer_ is a box office hit in the first weekend,'" he read, and Gold scoffed.

"Maybe in the first weekend," he said. "But what about the second?"

"There's no time to find out," Midas said, snatching the newspaper back and sticking it in his jacket pocket. "All the studios are jumping on the bandwagon—Paramount, MGM, Fox. We're closing production for a few weeks to install sound equipment and get a script for our next picture. The tagline's going to be 'Hart and Gold—They Talk!'"

Gold choked on spit. "Excuse me? Gold?"

"Well, of course you're starring in it. You're the gem of the company."

"I thought I was the gem of the company."

Everyone turned to look at Cora, still beautiful in her outfit that made her hips wider than she was tall.

"You are, dear," Midas said. "But go home. We'll call you when we start production."

"Wait, does this mean I'm out of a job?" Neal asked, folding his arms. Gold leveled a glare at Midas—perhaps the set of a talkie didn't need mood music, but they'd have to go through him if they planned on firing his son.

"No, we're making you head of the new music department. You'll be in charge of the score."

"Great! When do we start?"

* * *

As a parting gift while they closed down Monumental to get everything set up, David gave Gold an ankle brace, and told him to practice walking without a limp. His plan had been to ignore this advice, as well as the advice on getting a diction coach to cure his Scottish accent, but Neal was too excited about both.

"Henry was always sort of ferret-y looking, wasn't he?" Gold said, steps getting faster from his week of taking walks around town with his son.

"Yeah, he had that weird mustache whenever we weren't filming." Neal shuddered. "It was like his hair didn't really want to grow, but was trying anyway."

"At least he doesn't have the villain mustache anymore." Gold stumbled, bracing a hand on Neal's elbow for a few seconds before righting himself and continuing. It was his first stumble of the day—a vast improvement.

"Yeah, Killian wears it way better. His face was made for that mustache."

"His face was made for a good slap."

Neal patted him on the back—lighter than usual, since his balance wasn't as good without his cane. "I know, I know. But hey, at least he has to get the British coached out of him."

Gold groaned. "Are you really taking me to see a diction coach?"

"Dad, you know that your first appointment is today, and you have to go."

"Do I really?"

"Yes, you really do."

Neal didn't force him to walk all the way to the diction coach, for which he was grateful. Ever since the night he'd been thrown into Belle's passenger seat, Neal's car had been a perfect angel. Of course.

"All right," Neal said, pulling up in front of the office building. Cora's limo was there already, but David had assured Gold that their coaches were in separate rooms.

"It's time to learn how to do things other than pantomiming." Neal mimed being trapped in a box, looking to Gold for laughter, but all he could do was sink down in his chair with a frown. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." He shook his head and swallowed, trying to get rid of the lingering fuzziness his words had brought. "Let's go."

Neal laid a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "Dad, come on. You were fine. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's just—nothing." He reached for the door, and Neal all but laid across his lap to stop him.

"Dad."

Gold sighed, trying to fold his arms but unable to because his son was flopped across them. "That's just what Belle said to me. That's all."

Neal frowned, straightening up. "You still thinking about that? It's been three weeks."

"No. I'm fine. Let's go." He managed to get out of the car, but since he still had a bum ankle, Neal was around to confront him by the time he closed the door.

"Dad, you're not a mime. You're a great actor, and a great musician. Millions of people look up to you. Don't let her get you down."

If he'd had his cane to lean on, he wouldn't have had to sag back against the car, feeling like a weak teenager. "Neal, I have a confession to make."

Neal's face scrunched. "What is it?"

He looked up, meeting Neal's eyes, and swallowed. "I've been looking for her."

"Who? Belle?"

He nodded. "In every club I know. I went down to the Coconut Grove, but she'd been fired."

"Fired?"

He nodded again, feeling like there were rocks where his heart should have been. "It was all my fault, Neal, and I just—I wish I could—you know."

"Apologize?" Neal slung an arm around his neck. "I didn't know you were looking for her anyway."

"Yeah, well." He shrugged, trying to swallow down the rocks.

"Well, if I had known, I would have helped." He started to propel him forward, letting Gold use him as support instead of his cane. "We're in this together, Dad. You don't have to go stalking pretty lounge singers alone."

He was amused, but he could only manage a weak laugh, reaching up to pat his son's hand. "Thank you, Neal."

"No problem. Now, let's go learn you to talk like me."

"If that is the result," he said, allowing Neal to guide him into the building, "I may demand a refund."

* * *

Gold had been expecting a crusty old man with a Shakespeare book when they arrived at the office. Instead, there was a young woman about Neal's age, and she almost knocked over her soda when they arrived.

"Oh, gosh!" she said, stumbling around the desk to shake their hands. "I knew you'd made an appointment, but I wasn't quite prepared for Robert Gold to walk into my studio! Oh, and Neal Cassady! It's an honor, an absolute honor!"

Gold was prepared to be annoyed, but it seemed the woman knew that the way to his heart was through flattering his son, so he let her have a tiny smile—more than most people got, unless there was a camera.

"I'm Astrid Faye, and I'm so excited to work with you!" She pumped his hand up and down, gripping it in both of hers, and he had to work to extricate himself, presenting Neal's arm instead.

"Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Faye," he murmured.

"That is 'Miss' Faye, right?" Neal asked, matching her enthusiasm for hand-shaking. Gold just barely refrained from rolling his eyes. "Not 'Missus'?"

"Nope, it's 'Miss!'" She dropped her hands, clasping them in front of her. "But you can both call me Astrid. Are you ready to begin?"

She was far too bubbly to be a serious diction coach, but Gold liked her anyway—she wasn't callous or pretentious or too terribly annoying—and that was not a status that many people achieved, especially not this quickly.

"Ready when you are," Gold said. "But first—may I sit down?"

"Oh! Of course!" She scurried around to a chair, but Gold limped over to stop her before she could drag it.

"Here is fine." He sat, relieved to have the pressure off his leg, and Astrid fluttered around for a few more seconds before hopping onto her desk.

"All right." She cleared her throat, picking a book up, and crossed her legs at the ankles like royalty. She lifted her chin and straightened her back, holding the book like she was about to recite a monologue from it, and when next she spoke, her voice was like a rich socialite.

"Shall we begin, Mr. Gold?"

He and Neal could only stare for a few seconds, until Gold cleared his throat and broke the spell. "Yes. I'm ready."

* * *

It proved difficult to speak in all seriousness with an American accent. Gold tried, he did, but his speech was slow and stilted and he sounded like a teenager trying to make a prank call with a disguised voice.

"All right, Mr. Gold!" Astrid's normal voice was back, and Neal was grinning like a dog having its belly rubbed. "You did great. I'll see you on Thursday, okay?"

"Thursday."

There was a knock at the door, and then a petite woman in a blue shawl was walking in, followed by Cora. "Miss Faye, may I borrow your etiquette book? My copy seems to have wandered off."

Astrid paled, and a tiny giggle that had the small woman leveling an icy glare escaped. "Of course, Miss Blue." She stumbled over to her desk, and Gold couldn't watch her make a fool of herself, so he turned to Cora.

"Hello, Robbie, darling."

"Hello, Cora," he said, using his American accent. His 'r' was over-accented, but making Cora's name sound stupid was one of his favorite activities.

She wrinkled her nose. "What on earth has happened to your voice?" She was speaking slower, though, taking more care with each syllable than usual, as though her tongue was swollen and she was afraid of sounding foolish.

"I've Americanized it. What do you think?"

"It's dreadful." She shuddered, drawing her mink stole tight to her neck.

"Oh, good, then we'll be more on par with each other."

Cora laughed, a laugh that would have sent a lesser man running, and swiped her fingers across his shoulder. "Oh, Robbie. You are funny."

"Miss Hart, it's time to finish our lesson," Blue said, stepping up next to them. She looked at Gold like a disapproving nun, as though he were standing there corrupting Cora in front of her eyes. He bared his teeth.

"Yes, thank you, Blue. Let's go."

"_Miss_ Blue," she said, leading her out. "It's _Miss_."

"Yes, of course, dear. Are you coming?"

Blue cast Astrid a look as though Cora's manners were her fault, and then swept out after the other woman. Gold stuck his tongue out and grimaced like he'd just licked something rotten, but Neal went over to Astrid and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Someone needs to relax," Neal said, and Gold glared at him before he could make a distasteful joke in front of their bumbling diction coach.

"Oh, no, Miss Blue is just very dedicated to her craft." Astrid let out a wheezy giggle that sounded like a malfunctioning air tube. "Shall we finish?"

"We did finish," Gold reminded her. "Our next appointment is Thursday?"

"Oh, right." Astrid shook her head, smile brightening a few watts. "Perfect. I'll just see you out, then. Did I write it down?" She rushed around to her desk, clearing it until her day-to-day calendar appeared. Grabbing a pencil, she scribbled the appointment down, and then stood. "Okay. You're all set now."

"Can we take you out to lunch?" Neal asked. "As a sort of thank-you. And as a way to deal with the shock of Cora."

"Oh, oh, I'd really like that." Astrid nodded, looking like her neck had springs in it. "But I have an appointment in twenty minutes. But thank you!"

The walk to the parking lot was better now that Gold had been sitting for awhile, but it was still slow. Neal refused to help him, claiming he needed to get used to walking on his own.

"Hey, Dad?"

"What?"

"Do you mind if I date Astrid?"

Gold groaned. Perfect, his son was, but subtle, he was not. "Can you at least wait until after I'm done paying her to teach me how to talk?"

"What if she gets another boyfriend by then?"

"Neal."

"Fine."

He paused at the door to lean on it for a minute, and then they pushed their way out to make the long trek across the parking lot. In the recent call for diction coaches, all offices in the building had been rented out, and it was crowded at all hours of the day. Even Gold's raised status above most of the actors and actresses did not enable him to get a good parking space—unless he took a limo, which he did not enjoy doing.

"So, I've been thinking about our plan of attack."

Gold tripped and turned to look at Neal, face scrunched. "Sorry?"

"For finding Belle. I mean, you've been checking clubs, right?"

"Yes?"

"But didn't you say she was a writer?"

What the hell did that have to do with anything? "Yes, but I imagine she writes from her home, and if I knew where that was, I wouldn't be looking for her, would I?"

"American accent, Dad."

Gold growled through his nose. "Fine. I imagine she writes from her home."

"Yeah, but what do writers like?"

"I don't know. Books?" He shrugged, stopping again. This talk of Belle was making his ankle twinge with guilt.

"Exactly! We should be looking in book stores."

"Are you still on about that tramp from the Coconut Grove?"

Neal hunched over like he'd been smacked, and Gold wished he had his cane to clench. They stopped walking and turned around, standing across from Cora like opposing soldiers on a battlefield. Her voice was still slow, and Gold was glad that he wouldn't be the only one talking like an idiot.

"Jesus, Cora," Neal said, arms folded. "How do you always sneak up like that."

Cora laughed, pressing her gloved hand to the empty cavity where her heart should have rested. "I have my ways, Neal. Anyway." She shifted, blocking Neal from the conversation. "You should be more worried about me than that tart. I'm the one whose dress was ruined—and that chocolate could have been hot. I could have been burned."

"Yes, but you weren't, because she never would have thrown something hot at someone's face." He didn't know how he knew it, but he did. "Besides, you didn't suffer any long-term consequences. She lost her job."

"You're damn right she lost her job. I made sure of it."

Somehow, it sounded even worse in her newer, slower, not-quite-elegant accent. The skin of Gold's neck felt like it was being rubbed with hot sandpaper, and he wanted nothing more than his cane between his palms so that he could crush the smarmy look off of Cora's face.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, the owner of the Grove wasn't going to fire her for her little mishap, so I told him he'd better." She had the look of a well-fed snake. "Now there's no need for his little business to suffer."

"No, but she will." He took a step closer, his American accent making him sound less angry than he was—which would have been good if he'd had something to stab Cora with, because she'd never have seen it coming. He was sure Neal would stop him before he could choke her to death, but if he'd had a knife, he could have been quick about it. "How could you ruin her life like that?"

"Easy." Cora shrugged. "She tried to ruin mine. Besides, you liked her. I could tell."

"It was _me_ she was aiming for, you slimy, heartless—"

"Well, we have to go," Neal said, grabbing Gold by the shoulder and whirling him around. It caused too much pain in his ankle for him to protest, and instead he just made a breathless noise. "Lovely to see you, Cora, hope you fall off the sidewalk."

Neal half carried, half dragged Gold to the car, keeping up a brutal pace that Gold would have to cure with ice and a lot of alcohol.

"Why did you pull me away?" he snarled, Scottish accent back in full swing. "I could have killed her."

"Gee, I don't know, that seems like a pretty good reason to me."

He growled, allowing himself to be shoved into the passenger seat. Cora had disappeared into her limo, probably without a single care, and if he'd been the one driving, he might have tried to hit it. As it was, Neal drove extra carefully to his house.

"So, now it's even more important that we find Belle, right?" he asked after letting Gold stew in silence for five minutes.

"Yes." He sunk into his chair, glaring at the road. "Then she can give me permission to finally kill Cora."

"That's not going to happen, Dad."

Privately, Gold thought so, too, but that didn't stop him from hoping.

* * *

After a week and a half of diction classes, the studio was open again, and everyone was preparing to start production. Gold had gone over the script with Astrid twice, and was sure that his American accent was probably okay enough to pass, although the lines themselves were only so-so.

"All right, how do you feel, Gold?" David asked, rubbing his hands together. "Ready to start in a few days?"

"Fine." He glanced at the script in his hand. 'Imperious princess of the night,' indeed. Cora was more like a vampire. "Absolutely."

There was a loud crash, then, and everyone looked up to see Neal running in like there was a fire approaching, tripping over wires and bumping into scattered chairs. "Dad!"

"What? What is it? What's wrong?"

"Dad, you have to see this. Come on."

Everything was painful without his cane, but his son dragging him along like a rag doll was worse than most other activities. Still, Neal was too excited for Gold to begrudge him this, so he stumbled along as they ran across the lot, teeth clenched against the pain.

"Where are we going?" he asked when Neal slowed.

"This way." He stopped in front of the door to another production studio, giving Gold about half a second to catch his breath before pushing his way inside.

"I don't want to watch other films," Gold said, trying to dig his heels in. "Come on, can't we just go back?"

"You'll want to see this. Trust me."

Gold sighed, but he did trust him, so he continued to follow until they were stopped in front of a door with a sign that said 'PRODUCTION IN PROGRESS.'

"Come on." Neal gentled the door open, and Gold followed as soon as he ascertained that they were not disturbing anything major.

The director, James Spencer, beckoned Neal over, one hand pressed to his earmuff-sized headphones. "She'll be done in a minute," he said, staring at a group of women behind the glass where the director usually stood. There were five of them, all singing into the microphone—probably, but Gold couldn't hear them, so he couldn't be sure. In a corner of the room was Midas, watching the proceedings with a look like he couldn't quite puzzle out what was going on, but he was pretending to be on the same page as everyone else.

"Who?" Gold asked, sparing the women half a glance before turning back to his son.

Neal was grinning like a giddy schoolgirl, but deflated at Gold's lack of enthusiasm. "Seriously, Dad? Look over there."

Gold sighed, having no interest in a bunch of women behind a glass, and looked over. For a second, he didn't know what he was looking for—all of the women looked like all of the other extras they had in their pictures—but then his gaze fell on the woman on the far left, and he stumbled into Neal.

"How—Neal—"

"Isn't it great?" Neal braced him with a hand across his back. "We didn't even need to go to every bookstore in town."

James took the headset off and turned to them. "Which one are you looking at?"

"Belle," Neal said, because Gold seemed to have lost the ability to speak.

"Oh, yeah, she's good. Midas was in here earlier, thinking about using her as Regina's harmony." He lifted a small black thing out of his shirt pocket and pressed it to his mouth. "Hey, Belle, can you come out here?"

Gold watched, trying to look less like a startled goldfish and more like a confident actor, but all he could manage was to half-hide behind Neal as Belle made her way out of the back studio.

"Yes, Mr. Spencer?"

"Have you given any thought to Midas'—"

"Hey, Belle," Neal said, shoving his way between them and holding out his hand. "I'm Neal Cassady, it's a pleasure to meet you." He pumped her hand up and down, and Belle's smile was so genuine and polite that Gold had to inch away.

"It's a pleasure to meet you—" She froze, the sound of his foot dragging under his ruined ankle drawing her eyes to him, and swallowed. "—too."

"Hey," he said.

"Hey."

They stared at each other for a few seconds, Neal all but hopping in the background, and then Belle shook her head and turned back to James.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Spencer, but I won't be able to take the job with Midas."

"What?" Neal asked, looking at Gold like he could confirm this. "Why?"

"I think she was talking to me," James said, folding his arms. He shot Neal a glare and then turned to Belle. "Why not?"

"I should have told you this sooner, but I'm the woman who threw the drink in Miss Hart's face, and I don't think that she or Mr. Gold would appreciate—"

"No!" Gold lurched forward. "No, no, I'm totally fine with it."

"You—" Belle turned to him, face drawn. "You are?"

"Yes. Yes, absolutely."

"But—" She turned to James, then back to Gold. "I thought—"

"We have been looking everywhere for you," Neal said. "This guy's been crazy about trying to find you."

Belle looked at him, face relaxing, and if he looked half as sincere as she did, then his face was finally doing a good job. "You have?"

"Yes."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Midas said, tripping over wires as he stumbled his way into their conversation. "I think she's right."

Everyone turned to look at the studio head, disentangling himself from a power cord. "If she's the one who threw the drink in Cora's face, then this is a terrible idea. Terrible."

"I know." Belle smiled, hands tracing the buttons of her blazer. "I'll go get my things from the back."

She started forward, but Gold stopped her with a hand in front of her shoulder, trying not to think about the last time he'd done this.

"Now, wait just a minute, Midas. If you want to keep Belle around, you should."

"But, Gold—"

"Listen." He held a finger out to Midas, looking at him like he was presenting a lucrative deal. "The owner of the Coconut Grove may be afraid of Cora, but you're the head of this studio. _You_ are in charge of _her_."

"That's right!" Midas almost stomped his foot, but stopped in time for just his knee to jiggle. "I'm the head of this studio. Belle, you're hired."

"I—well, thank you!" She looked around at everyone, lips pressed together like she was trying not to keep speaking.

"She was already hired," Neal said, and Belle pressed her lips together even tighter.

"Thank you, Neal," Gold said, clamping a hand on his son's shoulder. His legs may have been faulty, but his hands worked just fine, and Neal winced—but shut his mouth.

"Thank you," Belle said again, smiling around at them. The other men stared like they expected her to perform magic now, and her smile faltered. "Um—so, I'll just—I'll go back to—the back?"

"I'll give you a tour of the lot," Gold volunteered, offering his arm.

"I had things to do," Neal said. "Important things."

"Well, go do them, then," Gold said. He raised his arm a fraction. "Lot tour?"

"Oh—yes, that would be nice." Belle rested the tips of her fingers on his jacket-covered forearm, and maneuvered her way out of the crowd.

"All right, so, Midas, we needed to talk about that score," Neal said, ushering everyone to look the other way. If Gold hadn't been a cripple, he could have used the getaway time to actually run away, but instead, he had to pretend that he intended to keep his slow, measured pace. He didn't want to remind Belle that his leg didn't work.

The sun was starting to go down, and everyone was wrapping up for the day, so they walked by people hauling equipment and putting the finishing touches on landscaping in a thick silence. Belle's fingers slipped off his arm, and he wished he had his cane so that he'd have something to do with his hands. His body was so numb that his ankle wasn't even bothering him.

"So," Belle said after a good five minutes of silence.

"So," he agreed. Why had he thought this was a good idea? Had he actually expected himself to do something right? She was just a girl he'd met once.

"Where's your cane?"

"What?" He looked down at his hand, flexing at his side like it wanted to grip something, and he hooked his thumb over his pocket to fix it. "Oh. I—well, they're making me learn to walk without it."

She frowned, eyebrows drawing together. "Doesn't it hurt?"

_Like Hell_. "Oh, not—not too much. It's fine."

She took his arm then, and he had the distinct impression that she was trying to make herself a makeshift cane. Before he could consider what he was doing, he reeled away from her with a snarl.

"Don't pity me."

"I'm not pitying you," she said, backing away like she was rearing up for a strike. "I'm trying to help you!"

"Well, I don't need your help—I'm fine. I'm used to being a stuntman, remember?"

She drew back like he'd slapped her, and he closed his eyes. Search for a woman for weeks, fuck it up in a few minutes—it was just his luck.

"Look, I'm sorry—"

"No."

He opened his eyes, expecting to see her back as she walked away, but she was looking down, hands twisting together in front of her. "No?"

"I shouldn't have said any of those things. I'm sorry."

If her intention had been to make him feel like slime, then she'd succeeded. Neal shouldn't let him leave the house and interact alone with people. He should have been a hermit. Maybe he'd go live in a mountain.

"No, no—you were right."

"It doesn't matter." She shook her head. "I shouldn't have said them. I should have known better."

"Oh, but it was okay for me because I didn't know better?"

"No." Her eyes flashed, and he felt like she'd paralyzed him. "You were mean. But we weren't talking about you."

His apology stuck in his throat, and he felt like opening his mouth would unleash a whirlwind of mucus and phlegm, so he swallowed it all down, and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Can we start over?"

She stared at him for a few seconds, then offered him the traces of a smile. "Yeah." She stuck her hand out. "I'm Belle French."

"Robert Gold." He took her hand and shook it, pleased by the firmness of her grip. "And what do you do for a living, Miss French?"

"I'm a writer." She made no move to let go of his hand. "And you?"

"A musician." When had he become a musician instead of an actor? He didn't know, but it felt right, and the pleased curve of Belle's lips told him it was the right decision.

"Would you like to give me a tour of the studio?" she asked, gesturing.

"It would be my pleasure."


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a week, and Gold now knew several things about Belle. He knew that she had an opinion on everything, backed up by facts and research and other convincing arguments. She had a scar on the inside of her wrist from where she'd been zip-tied to a chair in a school play years ago. She absorbed romance novels like oxygen, even though it was frowned upon in the writer community.

Above all, he had learned that life without Belle was stupid, and he did not intend to live it as such ever again.

To ensure this, they had to tiptoe around corners whenever they saw each other—Cora had eyes and ears everywhere, and it was hard to know who was in her pocket and who wasn't. If she thought that Gold liked Belle, she would make life difficult for both of them.

Since Gold got to the studio hours before Belle would, he penned a note asking her to meet him for dinner, and had Neal leave it where she'd be sure to find it. Filming began today, and it was possible that even his easygoing son would need a pick-me-up, so it was a given that he would need to see Belle.

Once on set, he was dressed in the French Revolution-era costume they'd been fitting all week and stuffed into a curly white wig.

"You look ridiculous," Neal said, watching as Mary Margaret tied a silk cravat around Gold's neck.

"Shut up," he said, careful not to move. "At least I'm not wearing extra hips."

"It was the style," Mary Margaret said, straightening the ruffle. "You'd have been very handsome in the French Revolution."

"Wonderful. That's just when I'd like to be handsome."

Cora appeared in the doorway with a clatter, her extra hips knocking over a display of plastic jewels. "God, this wig is heavy, Margie. Whoever designed it is an idiot."

Gold pressed his lips together as Mary Margaret swallowed, directing her eyes to the buttons of his tunic.

"Everyone wore them, Cora. It was the style."

"Well, everyone was an idiot. Hurry up, would you? We'd like to begin." She left in the same clatter in which she'd arrived, and Mary Margaret flinched so hard, she almost tugged a button off his shirt.

"Hey, don't worry about her," Neal said, clapping a hand to Mary Margaret's shoulder. "She's mean to everyone. You should worry more if she was nice to you."

She smiled, patting down Gold's lapels. "That's true. Then I'd know for sure she was about to poison me."

Gold's own wig was a little heavier than was comfortable, but if Cora was complaining, he certainly wouldn't be, so he limped out to the set in his ankle brace and the boots designed to accommodate it, and stood like a soldier next to David.

"How are you feeling?" David asked, arms folded across his chest as he surveyed the set like a king surveying his kingdom.

"Very confident," he lied, eyeing the sound equipment. It was so shiny and new, and he was a relic. How was this going to work out?

"Great. We're going to start with the love scene, since we've figured out how to block that, and the sound tech is working on where we'll put the microphone for the swordfight."

"Wonderful." Gold's ankle twinged in memory of the swordfight rehearsals—this was why he had gotten out of acting. His stunt double did a little bit, but any time Gold's face was going to be near the camera, he had to do his own fencing.

In her new skirts, Cora could not sneak up on people, and both David and Gold turned around at the sound of her hips knocking into a plastic fern.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, and when the fern refused to be kicked into a proper standing position, she knocked it flat. "I missed it."

"Just telling Gold that we're doing the love scene first," David said, neither of them moving to help her with the plant.

"Oh, good, we need to spend more time together before the wedding."

She swept past them, and David and Gold exchanged looks. It was hard to tell who was crazier sometimes—Cora, or the fans.

"Oh, David, I forgot to mention—do you mind if I just say what I usually do when I'm romancing her?" he asked, watching Cora stumble around fake foliage and statuettes. "You know, 'I love you, I love you, I love you?' 'Imperious princess of the night' sounds so—" He tried to think of a delicate way to phrase this. "—incorrect."

David pressed his lips together, always the fair director, unwilling to laugh at Cora's expense if he could remember not to. He swallowed several times before managing a, "That's fine," and wandering off to see to the wiring.

It took half an hour for everyone to be satisfied with the sound equipment, and then it was time to arrange the actors. Cora was seated on a stone step, with several ladies coming around to arrange her skirts around her so that she wasn't bobbling on the ground like an egg trying to balance. Gold was placed on a balcony with a walking stick that he was instructed not to use as a cane because it was just for decoration.

"Okay, guys. The mic is in this bush." David pointed to a fluffy plant covered in fake snow. "Talk into the microphone, okay? And remember, everyone else—quiet on the set."

"Roger that," Gold said, saluting.

"Just get on with it." Cora ruffled her dress, facing forward like her neck was made of wood. "I'm getting a headache."

"Funny, you always give me a headache, too," Gold murmured, relishing the fact that Cora would not turn around and give him the withering look he knew she was wearing.

"Quiet on the set!" David called, and then he was disappearing into the sound room.

Billy snapped the clapboard. Gold looked down at Cora, pressing a hand to his heart, and threw his decorative walking stick to the side before sprint-limping down the stairs, trying not to let the pain he was in show on his face.

Cora turned now, lips tightening at the motion, and pressed her hand to her heart as Gold appeared behind her. She whipped back around, looking off into what should have been the moonlit distance, but was just the sound room.

"Oh, Pierre, you shouldn't have come!" she said, looking down.

"Not even the canons of war could have kept me from your side," he said, his American accent slipping a little. It was pretty good, but not perfect, and his ankle felt like it was on fire, so that didn't help anything.

"You're flirting with danger! They'll surely find you out here with me." She swept her head from side to side, fluttering her lashes at the ground.

"I could not—"

"Cut!"

David ran out, eyebrows drawn and sweaty.

"What's wrong?" Gold asked, shifting his weight to his good leg.

"Cora, you keep moving your head, and we're only getting every other word. You have to talk into the bush." He pointed. "That's where the microphone is."

"Well, I can't make love to a bush, can I?" She folded her arms.

David folded his arms, looking around. "That's a pretty valid point."

"And just what, exactly, are you going to do about it?" Cora asked, directing the withering look she'd been holding in during the filming at David.

* * *

When they sewed the mic into a flower on Cora's shoulder, the same problem arose—every other word got cut out. When they sewed it into a flower at her breastbone, it picked up her heartbeat and magnified it into what sounded like an omen of impending death. When they tried padding it in so that there was a layer between the mic and her heart, Midas came in and ripped all the cords out of the wall, sending Cora sprawling and into a subsequent rage.

While they left her diction coach to calm her down and remind her to use round tones, David called Gold and Neal into the back to figure out their next course of action. The mic was still running, picking up muted studio sounds, so David stood with his back to it.

"We could try putting it on your shoulder, and asking her to talk to you?"

"Unless you put it in my cravat, I don't think that'll work." Gold watched Cora through the glass, sitting on the step and glaring over at everyone while Blue spoke with a stern face. They could hear her the ruffling of her flower brooch, and the soft thump of the beating empty cavity in her chest.

"And Cora would never go for looking at him instead of him looking at her," Neal said with a shrug.

"What if we add a decorative ball to your walking stick, and you don't throw it?"

"Won't my hand be covering it?" He folded his arms—if they were going to give him a cane, he should be allowed to use it.

"Not if you hold it under the—what's that noise?"

They both turned to the soundboard, listening to the guttural bubbling coming through it.

"Is Cora having a heart attack?" David moved up several sliders on the sound board, filling the room with the sound.

The three men looked at each other, faces paling a few shades. It was Neal who first broke the spell, shifting around like he was trying to move a laugh from his face to a less obvious part of his body.

"I think she's singing," he said. "To herself."

Gold pressed his lips together, flexing his cane hand around the air. "My, oh my."

"I think we should pretend that we never heard this," David said, but he did not turn the sound off.

"Of course," Gold said, trying to sound diplomatic, but the message didn't quite reach to his facial expression.

"After we leave this room, none of us have ever heard Cora sing to herself." David pointed at both of them. "Got it?"

Gold and Neal nodded, and then David put his arms down and glanced behind him at the sound equipment. No one moved to lower the volume.

* * *

He and Neal were the last ones to leave the studio, Gold having stayed to keep his son company while he organized his tiny orchestra room. As they stepped out of the building, Belle emerged from a bush carrying two thermoses, and Gold almost fell into his son.

"Hi. Sorry," she said, biting her lip.

"It's no matter," Gold said, brushing himself off. "I thought we were meeting at the diner?"

"Well, you were taking a long time, so I figured I'd surprise you." She shrugged, looking more lost than he thought the situation warranted. Was something wrong?

"I have to run," Neal said, speaking too quickly. "Date. Later, Pop." He clapped him on the shoulder, then disappeared toward the parking lot, leaving Gold alone with a wary looking Belle.

"My apologies," he said, swallowing. "I didn't realize it was getting so late. I should have called."

"It's fine." She thrust one of the thermoses at him. "I brought hot chocolate. Do you want to take a walk?"

"Yeah, sure." He accepted the drink, shifting it to his other hand so that he could offer her his closest arm. She took it with a smile, and that soothed his twitching heart a little, but the look on her face was still making him nervous.

They started around the lot, moving slowly enough to accommodate the fact that Gold had been using his leg all day. If he leaned a bit heavier on Belle than usual, she said nothing, just sipped her hot chocolate.

"Cora almost spotted me," she said after a minute, and when he looked over at her, she was grinning. "I don't think I've ever run faster."

"She didn't see you? Normally, she smells prey like a shark."

Belle shook her head. "There was some woman walking out with her. I think she'll be dead by morning."

"I wouldn't be surprised."

"I need to talk to you."

He stumbled, muttering vague excuses about his ankle when she reached to help him. He forced himself not to bat her away—just because she 'needed to talk to him,' it didn't mean that she was going to say something bad about them. She could need to talk to him about anything—rent, the weather, her job. Anything.

"What is it?" he asked, sounding like an old man with a smoking problem. God, he was in for it—it had only been a week, and the thought of Belle leaving made him feel like his lungs were being compressed.

"Are we dating?"

He wheezed, stumbling enough that she reached around to grip his back. What was the right answer to that question?

"Do—do you want to be?" he asked, pleased that his voice was husky instead of weak and crippled.

"Yes." She looked at him, chin tilted up, thermos clutched in her hand. "I do."

"So do I," he said, surprising himself with his own honesty—but that didn't surprise him quite as much as the fact that Belle was in agreement with him. She was, after all, perfect, and he was a beast.

Happiness bloomed on her face, and she flushed from her cheeks to her ears to the top of her neck. "Great."

He wanted to be happy, and he was—he could feel it in his chest like a hot air balloon—but he couldn't shake the guilt that was trying to puncture it all. "I don't think we can yet, though."

Her face fell, but it perked up before he could blink. "Because of the movie?"

He shook his head. "No. There's something I need to say to you, I think. I owe you that much."

She didn't look sad, just confused—he supposed he would be confused, too, if their roles were reversed, but it would have been nice if she'd shown a little bit of disappointment.

"What is it?" she asked, reaching up to lay a hand on his cheek. He closed his eyes, leaning into it. No one ever touched him so gently—even his wife long ago hadn't. Belle was perfect.

"I—" He frowned, opening his eyes. "Why don't we keep walking?"

"Sure." She took his arm again, waiting for him to set the pace.

He didn't speak, meandering through the lot with no real direction, and the hot chocolate was starting to taste like dust. Had he ruined everything? It didn't seem like it, since Belle was still walking with him, but he was sure he was about to if he just told her they couldn't be together and then said nothing more.

"Robert?"

"Mm?"

"What did you want to say?"

"I—" Was it stupid? Probably. It was stupider of him not to acknowledge what he'd done to her at all, though, especially since she hadn't brought up their awful beginnings all week. "Things like this are—difficult for me," he said instead.

"I have an idea." Without warning, she turned them in the opposite direction, headed for his studio.

"What is it?" He didn't want to go back in there until tomorrow. The afternoon had been a whirlwind of ankle pain, Cora's face, and his terrible American accent.

"Maybe if you have the right setting, you can just pretend you're in a movie."

He was unable to not return her smile at that. He may not have liked this whole talkie thing, but acting could make the ridiculous lines sound almost reasonable, it could at least make his thoughts coherent.

Belle led him around the studio until she found the set for his movie, but he didn't want to be there. All he could think of was Cora and her hips knocking everything over, and he would only be able to make snide remarks if he tried to have a serious talk with her there, and he told her as much.

When she finished snickering, she led him off the set, looking for a better one.

"What's your picture called, anyway?" she asked, pausing in front of a train. Deciding against it, she shook her head, moving on.

"_Cavaliers in the Snow_," he said.

Belle stopped walking, blinking rapidly like she was trying to fend off tears. Then, her chest vibrated, and she clutched at his arm. "Really?"

"Really."

"That's the silliest thing I've ever heard." She snickered, having to double over seconds later and press her head into his forearm.

He waited, unable to feel insulted by her mirth at his expense. He had been studiously avoiding thinking about the title of his upcoming picture, and at least Belle was at liberty to say what she wanted about it without it violating the terms of her contract.

"I'm told that there is data that shows that movies released near Christmas that feature 'snow' in the title do better in the box office," he said once she'd calmed down.

"I suppose that makes sense," she said, wiping at her eyes. "Can you make it snow on set?"

"What?"

"Right now. For us?"

"Right. Um—yeah, okay. Back to my set. Come on." It was his turn to lead her, through another Western set and then a jungle and then the inside of a train until they hit the palace courtyard he'd spent the day walking all over.

"So is she Marie Antoinette?" Belle asked, allowing him to lead her up to his balcony. He refused to put her anywhere that Cora stood.

"It would be nice if she was." He set about pointing a large fan in her direction, flipping the switch so that she'd be doused in a soft breeze. "Then we'd have the comfort of knowing she was to be beheaded."

Belle flinched against the breeze, but she was still laughing, so he didn't stop the fan. "Are you going to say what you wanted to say using only snide remarks?"

"I'm going to try not to." He found a fuzzy white blanket of fake snow, and carried it up to her. Though his ankle hurt, it was somehow easier to be running back and forth to set the stage for Belle than it was to everything he'd done all day.

Belle tried to help him drape the blanket around the balcony, but he batted her hands away, so she stepped back to sip her hot chocolate and watch with an amused crinkle to her eyes. He got the blanket from his own locker—a sheet of red plaid fleece—and draped it over her shoulders, making her look cozy and windswept.

"Are you ready?" she asked, clutching the blanket around her shoulders.

"I think so." He picked up his thermos, the chocolate inside somehow still warm. "I'm trying to decide where to stand."

"If you're making a large declaration, I would stand down there." She pointed to the ground. "Then you can pretend that you've just called me out of my bedroom with pebbles to the window."

Looking down at her, his mouth tilted in an affectionate smile, he could have kissed her. Instead, he swallowed down the thought. "You have wonderful ideas."

"Thank you." She bit her lip, and he decided it was time to get down to the courtyard before he did something foolish.

He felt a little bit like Romeo, staring up at his lady on her balcony, except that this was only illicit because Cora had decided to make Belle her archenemy.

"What did you want to say, Robert?" She bent over the railing, hair flying backwards like a halo around her face, and he swallowed.

"I wanted to say—" He clenched his teeth, looking up at her. He didn't deserve anything about this moment with anyone, least of all Belle. "That I'm sorry."

Her face scrunched into a frown, and she lowered her thermos. "Sorry for what?"

At his highest expectation, he'd hoped that she would at least say that he was forgiven. He'd assumed that reminding her of his faults would make her distant and angry. This was not at all the reaction he'd anticipated.

"Being a beast to you when we first met. You don't deserve that."

The lines on her face smoothed, and before he knew what was happening, she was hurrying down the balcony steps, blanket flying out behind her like a tartan cape. She stood in front of him, and she was so small even in her heels that she hardly came to his nose.

"Thank you," she said, and he felt like he was stuck in her too-blue eyes. "But we were both a little beastly that night. Can you forgive me?"

"Belle," he whispered, reaching up to run his fingers along her cheek. "I'd forgive you if you ripped my heart out."

"I would never do that." She pressed her hand over his. "But if I did, I'm sure I'd have a very good reason."

"I know. That's why I would forgive you."

"And I forgive you." She swayed toward him, and he caught her round the waist with his free hand. "And I want to be with you more than anything."

"In that, my darling, we are in perfect agreement," he said, and when he kissed her, she put her hand on his elbow and kissed him back.

* * *

The month before the first official screening of _Cavaliers in the Snow_ was simultaneously the best and worst month of Gold's life. On one hand, he had Belle now, and he hadn't been this happy since Neal was born. On the other hand, his ankle was more destroyed than it ever had been, and he'd had to kiss Cora several times a day while they were filming.

Belle was coming to the premiere to support him, but since the publicity team was forcing him to attend with Cora, they had to walk in separately and sit an entire floor apart. Before they went in, Neal parked around the corner to let them say goodbye.

"I'll be right up front, cheering you on," she said, standing on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck.

"Can't I sit with you?" He slid his arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to the corner of her lip. "I don't care about the picture."

"No." She kissed him on the mouth, and he considered shoving her back in the car and skipping the screening altogether. "Come on. You're Robert Gold. You need to be seen."

He groaned, pulling her a little closer. "I want to be seen with you."

"After the picture's released," she promised. "And there's no one to ruin it."

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers. "Fine. You know best."

"That's right." She shifted around until she could tap his nose with her fingernail. "I'll see you after the show."

"Good. I'll meet you right back here with the car."

He opened his eyes in time for her to disentangle herself from him, and then with another quick goodbye kiss, she was gone, trotting off around the corner to find her seat among the masses. He got back into the car with Neal, who looked like he wanted to say something.

"Spit it out," Gold said, surly at the prospect of having to sit with Cora clinging to him after all that.

"When should I start calling Belle 'Mom?'" he asked, beating out a rhythm on the steering wheel. "Are you going to tell her you love her soon? Can I watch when you tell Cora?"

"Shut up," he said, sinking into his chair.

"You said to spit it out," Neal reminded him, lurching the car forward. "So this is your fault."

"This picture's going to be shit," he said, watching his son for the slightest reaction. Neal just shrugged.

"Maybe. But I can tell you that the music is top notch."

"It'll be the only good thing, and as brilliant as you are, I'm not sure it'll be enough to save it. You should just turn to performing. Your talents will be more appreciated."

"Performing didn't really work out, remember?" He parked around the back, where Cora's limo was waiting for Gold so that they could make their red carpet entrance together. "Cheer up. There's no doubt in my mind that everyone will leave this theater with a song stuck in their head."

"I hope that's all they remember," Gold grumbled. "See you inside?"

"I'll save your seat."

He and Cora sat in the limo in silence, but only because Cora was too busy staring at herself in her compact to make conversation. When the driver pulled up in front of the theater, she snapped it shut and stuffed it into her clutch.

"Ready, Robbie?"

"Of course, dear." Unable to clutch at his cane and still not broken of the habit, his fingers tapped against his knee until Cora laid a fuchsia-gloved hand over them.

"Don't look so nervous. People will get the wrong impression. Smile."

"Yes, dear." He forced one out, and then the door was being opened for him and he and Cora stepped out of the limo, all toothy smiles and gently waving hands.

"Cora, you look stunning!" a photographer called, and Cora laughed, wrapping both arms around one of Gold's. He was lucky to have cultivated a mysterious enough persona that allowed him to get away with just a small wave and the slightest upward turn to his lips. The cameras weren't getting much more than that.

"When's the engagement?"

"We want wedding bells!"

"Robert, can you blow these fans a kiss?"

He could oblige that, and the second his fingers left his lips, the screaming doubled in volume. He waved again, pleased that no one had asked Cora for a kiss.

"Robert, Robert, over here!"

He had to lean on Cora for support as another reporter dragged him over to a microphone, and she surprised him by not hissing anything scathing into his ear about it.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, voice too soft to be heard over the crowd, even with the microphone. Everyone quieted like he'd thrown a blanket over them.

"Well, we'd just like to congratulate you on coming out of retirement!" The woman thrust her hand out to shake his, and he obliged, keeping his other arm tight in Cora's grasp. "You thought it wouldn't happen, and it did!"

"And I couldn't be more thrilled." He extracted his hand, using it to pat Cora's.

"We all feel exactly the same!" She waved her hands at the crowd, inciting a renewed cheering force from them, and Gold threw his head back in a mime of laughter.

"Well, best get into the movie. I hear it's a good one." He didn't know which of his two statements was the bigger lie—the movie being good, or him being thrilled. Neither boded well for this evening.

Once they were seated in their box, Gold tried to sink into his chair, but Neal propped him up with his shoulder.

"Come on, Dad, it'll be fine."

David leaned around Neal's other side, hand clutching Mary Margaret's. "It's going to be great. I'm excited. Aren't you excited?"

"Ecstatic," Gold said, settling into his seat like a turtle. He looked around the theater to see if he could find Belle's hat, but she must have taken it off, and there were too many brown curls in a sea of hats and tall people for him to know for sure who Belle was.

The film started rolling about ten minutes later, and Cora's vice grip on his arm was the only thing keeping him from insisting that this was all a terrible dream. It started out fine, with the Monumental credits rolling—same theme music as before, but updated by Neal to reflect the 'new age' of pictures—but then Cora appeared on-screen playing with a string of pearls, trailed by a group of ladies in less-luxurious dresses, and surrounded by the sounds of a rockslide.

"What is that noise?" Neal whispered, squinting at the screen.

"Her pearls." Gold felt faint, but Cora's grip on his arm was keeping him conscious. He needed to extricate himself so that he could die in peace.

On-screen Cora spoke, and next to him, Cora squeezed his constricted arm. "It's nice and loud, isn't it?"

"That is very true."

There followed eighty-seven of the worst minutes of Gold's life. They were worse than the thousands of minutes his wife spent leaving him and then divorcing him, and worse than his childhood in Glasgow, and worse than kissing Cora. All of those things had a silver lining—his wife was gone, candy existed, and he and Cora had had an affair—but this was eighty-seven minutes of pure, life-altering torture.

He was ruined.

If there was something he missed insulting about himself in his own inner commentary, the jeering crowd saw to it that he didn't forget for long. While Cora sang her own praises in one ear, the audience screamed with laughter, and he could just imagine Belle with a leer, watching him talk in his slow American accent while he tried not to limp and fall over.

Everyone in the box but Cora slunk out of the theater five minutes early, not even wanting to see the ending kiss. The sound was out of synch by then, and Jones' villain dialogue was scrambled with Cora's, and though the finale should have been silent, there were still garbled words blaring out of the speakers as Gold gazed at Cora.

"Well, it's been nice knowing you," Neal said, clapping his hands together.

"It's going to be fine," David said, though he was paler than Gold had ever seen him. "They're Hart and Gold. This'll all blow over."

"I'm not so sure," Gold said. "You did promise that we could talk."

"You did talk!" David said. He was clutching Mary Margaret's hand like he was in labor, but she said nothing, just smiled at all of them.

"Sure. We'll call it talking."

"Hey." A ticket-taker leaned out of his window. "Is it a comedy in there?"

David looked ready to melt, so Mary Margaret turned around with a small smile. "No, it's the latest Hart and Gold."

"I have to leave," Gold muttered, needing his cane more than he ever had. "Neal, let's get the car and go around."

"Wait, you can't—"

"I'm leaving, David. We can talk in the morning."

He leant on Neal the whole way to the car, then stuffed himself into the back. If Belle didn't think he was a worthless waste of time after that, he wanted to hold her until he couldn't remember that anything but she and his son existed.


End file.
